


Home Remedies

by thelookyouredoingthelookagain



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bored Sherlock, Confused Sherlock, Experiment, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Home remedies, Logic, Lots of Touching, M/M, Poorly John, Sherlock Looks After John, lullaby, romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 17:14:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5013154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelookyouredoingthelookagain/pseuds/thelookyouredoingthelookagain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John is poorly, Sherlock decides to stave off his boredom by coming up with an experiment. He is completely unprepared for what happens next.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John Feels Poorly and Sherlock Feels Bored

**Author's Note:**

> All works here were produced by two friends in the fandom. One writes as SH and one as John, and we edit together. Our characters are based on the BBC's _Sherlock_ , though we don't mind playing a little loosely with canon and the occasional AU. We have whims and like to follow them. While we like to torture our boys with constant misunderstandings, we know they belong together and we always see to that.
> 
> All posted works are complete, and we hope there will be something for everyone. Please take a look at our other works. Just a note, though, there's pretty much always going to be smut. Sometimes fluff, sometimes angst, but always smut. We can't help it: that's just the way we are.
> 
> We plan to add new work each weekend, so please subscribe.
> 
> We also really appreciate the kudos and comments. They mean a lot -- sometimes they inspire new ideas and works, sometimes they just make us feel all warm inside.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

Sherlock was lying on the sofa, waiting for John to get home. He'd finished his work about an hour ago and it was extremely annoying that John wasn't here to first congratulate him and then entertain him. He'd put the kettle on but hadn't made the tea yet, assuming John'd be home any minute and he could do it. So now he was bored and thirsty, all thanks to John. What was the point of a flatmate anyway? If John wasn't back in five minutes, Sherlock would get up, make the tea, and go into his room to pout for the rest of the night and John would have no reason to complain because Sherlock's behaviour would be entirely John's fault.

John was in a taxi, in no condition for his usual walk home. He had felt this coming for a few days now and had hoped he could head it off. He cursed all of the flu patients who had flooded into the surgery, spreading it to him despite his being careful. He was so bad today that Sarah told him not to come back until he was better. His head was heavy with pressure in his sinuses, his nose was stuffed, and his throat was sore. He couldn't wait to get home and go straight to bed. 

_Please have tea ready. -JW_

The thought of something warm for his throat was making him wish there wasn't so much traffic. He needed it very badly. When the cab finally made its way through and pulled up to the flat, John paid and slowly made his way inside. His whole body ached. 

Sherlock saw the text and huffed as he got up to make the tea. Mainly he was pleased that John would be back soon, but John probably didn't need to know that. He had just poured two cups when John came in.

"You look terrible," he said to him as he took over John's mug.

John hung his jacket and took the mug, trying to breathe in the steam, but his nose was too blocked. "Thank you," he said, his voice scratchy and heavy. He moved around Sherlock and headed for the stairs. He needed to lie down. 

Sherlock stood stupidly watching John walk away. No, that wouldn't do at all. He went back to the kitchen to get his mug and then followed John up to his room.

John looked behind him and shook his head. "Don't come up. You'll get it too," he said. His d's were too heavy and sounded like n's. His t's sounded like the d's should have. 

Sherlock came in the room anyway. "What are you talking about?" he said. "I'm bored and I wanted us to . . . do something." He sat down on the edge of the bed.

"I am doing nothing but going to bed," John mumbled. He put on thick flannel pajama pants and a warm jumper before climbing into bed. He coughed and groaned, rubbing his sore throat. John pulled his tea closer and took a long sip, leaning on the headboard. 

Sherlock scooted up next to John, also leaning on the headboard. "Well, we can stay in here, I guess," he said. "Did you want to ask me about my day or something?"

John sipped more tea and sighed softly, closing his eyes. "How was your day?" he asked. 

"It was good," Sherlock said, starting to explain what he'd been working on. A few minutes later he looked over at John, wanting to see his usual attentive and curious face. But he didn't. John's eyes were closed and it seemed like he might actually be sleeping. He pushed on his arm. "Are you even listening?" he asked.

John blinked his eyes open and sipped more tea. It was getting cold. "Yes. Heating eye balls . . . explosions . . ." He nodded and closed his eyes again. 

"John," Sherlock said. "You're not paying attention at all. I sit around waiting for you all day and you can't even listen," he moved to get up. "I'm going then . . ." 

John took a heavy breath, swallowing hard and groaning softly again. "I need to sleep," he said thickly. He set his mug down and slumped to get under the covers better now that Sherlock was up. 

Sherlock didn't hear him as he'd already gone downstairs with a bit of dramatic stomp. He was sure John was soon to follow -- John always responded to Sherlock's pouting at some point. But after ten minutes, Sherlock was still alone in the sitting room. What exactly was going on? He got out his phone.

_What's wrong? SH_

John heard his phone, but he was too tired to move and get it. He snuggled under the covers and dozed off, breathing heavily through his mouth thanks to his stuffed nose.

Sherlock watched John's door as he waited for an answer. Nothing came. He stood again and walked upstairs, tapping at the door lightly. He stepped in before he was invited.

"John," he said, walking over to the foot of the bed. "Are you angry with me?" He wouldn't say it, but his frustration had now turned to worry. A bit, at least.

John blinked his eyes open. "What?" he asked, curling up more.

"What's wrong with you?" Sherlock said, sitting down on the edge. "Tell me, please."

"M'sick," John murmured.

Sherlock had a think. John did look sick actually. He looked terrible. "What's wrong with you? I mean, what are you symptoms?" he asked.

"Nose, head, throat," he listed vaguely. "It hurts to talk."

That detail made Sherlock wonder if this was actually about him, if John was just trying to find a way out of being with him. He walked over to the bed and touched John's forehead. "Are you hot or cold? I can't tell. Which one should you be?" he said, trying to see if he could read anything else on John's face.

"M'hot and I feel cold," John grumbled, tucking the covers around tighter.

"What should I do?" Sherlock said. "I want to help."

"Need rest," John said. "And hot tea, but tomorrow." He swallowed hard again and it hurt.

"I'll get some now, just in case," Sherlock said. He went down to the kitchen and made another cup of tea, returning a few minutes later. "Here," he said, putting it on the bedside table next to him. "I brought an orange too," he said, setting that down as well. "If you want it." He stood stupidly for a few moments. "Should I go then, I guess?"

John turned and shifted to awkwardly sip the hot tea. "Thank you," he said. "You should go or you'll catch it too."

"I won't catch it, John," Sherlock said. "I don't get poorly. You know that." He looked at him for a minute. "If you need anything, just shout. No, wait, don't shout. Don't even talk." He grabbed John's trousers from the floor and retrieved his phone. "Keep your phone by the bed. If you need anything, text me. I'll bring it to you. You need to get better. This will be boring tomorrow and I won't be able to cope with that."

John smiled softly and nodded, bringing the phone under the covers. "I'll keep it close." 

Sherlock fussed John's blanket and then realised that it was a kind of needless and possibly odd thing to do so he turned and went back downstairs.


	2. Sherlock Investigates

Once he was downstairs, Sherlock sat in his chair and then stared around the room. He was very bored now. He was going to have to make sure John was better tomorrow. He got up and moved to his desk, opening his computer and Googling John's symptoms. He jotted down some possible medications, but then remembered that, as a doctor, John was probably already well aware of those. He'd have to find something else, something that was guaranteed to work.

Most of what he found as alternative remedies, though, all seemed rather ridiculous. Oils, herbs, candles, chants, meditations. There was no logic to any of them so he kept clicking on new links.

He glanced at the clock and saw that he'd been sitting there for a couple hours now. He got up and put the kettle on. He'd had no idea there was such a plethora of options for idiotic cures to illnesses -- it was kind of amazing how many people believed in these things. He knew the world was stupid, but hadn't known it was that stupid. Every person who claimed that such-and-such concoction or meditation tape had cured them was either a total scam artist or completely gullible and blind to the difference between coincidence and causation.

He poured himself a cup of tea and then wondered whether John would want more tea. He hadn't texted, but then again, now that the idea had popped into his head, Sherlock would not be able to stop wondering so he poured a second cup and took it up to John's room. He peeked in and it looked like John was sleeping so he walked over and set it on the table, taking his cold one back to the kitchen.

Maybe sleep was all John needed, Sherlock thought. He found a book from his shelf and took it into his own room, lying down on his bed to try to read and not be bored.

John woke up in the morning even more miserable. His throat had swollen even more --swallowing was now incredibly painful -- and his eyes were watering from the pressure.

_I won't be getting out of bed. Will you bring me a decongestant? -JW_

Sherlock rolled over in bed and reached for his phone. It was now morning which meant that John hadn't needed him in the night, which for some reason disappointed him. But he needed him now, which made him feel better. He got up and slipped on his dressing gown, first going to the kitchen to make tea. While the kettle boiled, he went into the bathroom to look in the medicine cabinet, but since he didn't know quite what John wanted, he put all the bottles and boxes into his pockets. Then he carried the tea upstairs. He dumped his pockets onto John's bed and sat down on the edge. "You're still poorly then?" he said in a slightly angry tone. Perhaps that would motivate John to pull himself together.

John sat up and looked at all the boxes, picking the right one. He swallowed a couple with his tea and nodded. "I am," he croaked, swallowing hard again.

"Didn't you take any tablets yesterday?" Sherlock asked.

John shook his head. He sipped more tea so he could speak easier. "Just went to bed," he said.

"John," Sherlock said. "Don't you want to get better?" He picked up the box that John had taken pills from and read it. "Four hours. You'll be better in four hours." He gathered up the medications and put them back in his pocket. "Drink that tea and then go back to sleep. I'll come check on you in four hours. Try, okay?" He looked down at him and tried to smile encouragingly. "You didn't eat the orange," he added, slipping that into his pocket as well and turning to leave.

John watched him and didn't know what to think, not having the energy to tell him he wouldn't be better in four hours. It might take four days. He'd start coughing to clear his chest, his nose would start running, and his achy body would constantly be cold. He really, really hated this. He lay down again and covered up, still watching Sherlock.

"Is it a disease you have?" Sherlock asked before leaving. "Or is it just laziness or punishment for me?"

John closed his eyes. "Flu," he said.

"Fine," Sherlock said. "I'll figure it out. You just sleep. See you in four hours." 

John let him go and closed his eyes again, not sleepy but comfortable and warm finally.

Sherlock headed downstairs and got back on the computer. He looked up the medication and realised that there was no way John was going to be better in four hours. He restarted his search for other things to try.

Within a short time, Sherlock was once again reading rather ridiculous theories on how to cure flu. One contained a link to a scientific journal, but reading the article didn't exactly convince Sherlock that the treatment would work. His logic just wouldn't buy it. But he knew his logic was not the average person's logic. Perhaps that's why people tried this stuff -- perhaps they were actually cured because they were willing to believe they would be cured.

He glanced up at John's room. John did not possess the same level of logic as Sherlock, yet he was obviously smarter than the average person. Plus he was a doctor so his faith was obviously in traditional medicine. But John also had faith in Sherlock. That was kind of intriguing. If he turned John's illness into an experiment, Sherlock would no longer be bored. That would be a good thing. He started copying things down onto a list. He would get some of these remedies -- following them exactly as described even though he knew they were worthless. But if he acted like he believed in them . . . would that be enough to convince John and ultimately cure him?

He saw almost four hours had passed so he made John a new cup of tea and took it up to his room. "It's been four hours -- are you cured?" he asked as he handed him the tea.

John shook his head and took two more tablets with the fresh tea. "Few days," he told Sherlock. The hot tea was helping his throat.

"Drink all the tea," Sherlock said. "I need to go out to the shops -- do you need anything?"

"Stronger medicine," John said, leaning on the headboard again and sipping obediently.

"We'll see," Sherlock said. "Text me if anything happens," he added, though he wasn't quite sure what could happen. "I shouldn't be more than an hour."

"Okay," John said, marvelling that Sherlock was doing the shopping.

Sherlock headed out but not to their usual shop. He took a taxi to an herbalist place, handing the man his list and wandering around as the man made the remedies.

"Is it flu then?" the man asked.

"Apparently," Sherlock said.

"Not you, though, right? You look well," the man said.

"No, not me," Sherlock said.

"A loved one?"

Sherlock didn't say anything.  
  
"Here, I'll throw this in," the man said, putting a candle into the bag. "Burn it near the sickbed. It cleanses the air. I put the instructions for the tea and salve in here, but basically use as much of both as needed until the sickness passes." He tallied up the costs and Sherlock paid him. He walked back, stopping at a green grocer to get more oranges before heading back to the flat.


	3. The Experiment Begins

Sherlock set his packages on the table and went up first to check up on John.

"How are you now -- better or what?" he asked, peeking in through the door.

John shook his head. "My nose has started running so that's a good sign," he said. His voice was still thick. 

"Well, you look much worse to me," Sherlock said.

John blew his nose and tossed the tissue in the bin beside him. "Did you bring medicine?" he asked, ignoring the comment. 

"I brought something that will help," Sherlock said. "I'll bring it up. Do you need more tea or how about some soup? Soup is good for sick people. Should I make some soup?"

John's brows went up a bit. "Um . . . soup would be great," he nodded. 

Sherlock smiled and went back downstairs. He dumped a tin of soup into a pot and put it on to simmer and then turned on the kettle. He took out one of the tea bags that man at the shop had made and dropped one into a mug, pouring the boiling water of it. It smelled quite strong. After a few minutes, he took out the bag and dumped it in the bin. He got out a tray and put a bowl of soup and the mug on it, adding an orange. He carried it back up to John's room.

"Here you go," he said. "Sit yourself up a bit." He placed the tray on John's lap. "I forgot to check what the soup was but you bought it so you'll probably like it."

John looked down at the arrangement and smiled. "Sherlock . . . thank you," he said, pulling the try closer. He blew his nose again and tossed the tissue. 

"Eat the orange this time," Sherlock said. "It's good for you." He sat down on the end of the bed and then scooted up a little closer to John. "I want you to get better . . . not just because it's boring that you're ill, which it is, but you know, you look after me and all so I feel I should do the same for you."

John smiled wider and felt his cheeks warming, hoping it wasn't another fever, even though it was a bit embarrassing that Sherlock's comment would make him blush. "Yes, doctor," he teased.

"I know I'm not a doctor, John, but you are," Sherlock said. "I mean when you think about it, it's quite humiliating, your getting sick like this. You should know better. Since you obviously don't, I'm just thinking you should take my advice since I appear to be the sensible one here, when it comes to health, I mean."

John chuckled but it caused a coughing fit, the tray almost falling off of his lap. He tugged the tray close and started on the soup. "I'll listen," he said.

"For once . . ." Sherlock said. He moved up and lay beside John, leaning on to the headboard. "It stinks in here." He leaned over and smelled John's arm. "You stink actually," he said. "After you finish, I think you should wash."

"I'm sweating out a fever. And I don't want to," he said as he ate. He was still too cozy to get out of bed.

"You're unpleasant when you're poorly," Sherlock said. "Unpleasant and smelly." He looked over and smiled.

John smiled softly. "Maybe I'll take a bath," he conceded.

"Eat first," Sherlock said. "And drink your tea." He fiddled with the edge of the blanket.

"You don't mind keeping me company?" he asked, starting to peel his orange.

"Obviously not," Sherlock said. "You're my friend. And it's boring without you." He picked up a piece of the orange peel and turned it in his fingers.

John watched and almost leaned on Sherlock's shoulder. "I don't want to get you ill," he said even though Sherlock didn't know what he'd been thinking.

"I'm not worried," Sherlock said. "I, unlike some people on this bed, know how to look after myself." He was pretty sure John would immediately see through that comment, but he decided to stick with it.

"Oh yeah right!" John laughed, falling into another fit.

"John, control yourself!" Sherlock said, trying to sound annoyed. "Drink your tea, it'll help your throat."

"What is this? It tastes . . . different," he wheezed, taking two long sips.

"How is it?" Sherlock asked. 

"There's something in this," John said. "You're not experimenting are you? I'm ill!"

"Hurtful," Sherlock said. "No, it's a tea my grandmother used to make -- it's all herbs. I can write out a list if you don't trust me. She used to make it for us when we were under the weather. She promised it would make us feel better and it always did. I mean, don't drink it . . . if you think my grandmother was a liar."

"I didn't say she was!" John said quickly, taking another sip. "It's different but it's good, I guess," he assured Sherlock. He didn't want to mess this up -- Sherlock had never shared anything like this before and it was kind of sweet.

"Well, just try to be a good patient," Sherlock said. "I'm not getting paid to be your doctor, you know, so if you annoy me, I can't be held responsible for my actions."

John laughed again and started coughing, reaching out to hold Sherlock's arm. When it was over he started on his soup. "I will be good, I already promised."

"Good," Sherlock said. He turned on his side and propped his head up on his elbow. "Are you staying off work then?" he asked.

"Yes. I can't see patients like this," John said.

"Baby," Sherlock said, pushing him lightly on the arm. He watched John finish his lunch and then pushed himself back up. "All right, go shower or take a bath or whatever. I'll tidy up." He reached over and took the tray from John's lap.

John smiled softly before saluting him. "Yes sir," he said, smiling even wider. He grabbed new pajamas and went to the bathroom, starting a warm bath as he undressed. This was strange behaviour for Sherlock and John couldn't figure out his motives. He wasn't complaining, though. It was nice being taken care of. He would let it go on until he was better and try to figure it out then.

Sherlock washed up John's dishes, using extra hot water just in case. Then he pulled out his bag from the herbalists and took out the ointment, reading the man's instructions. He tucked the tin into his pocket and flopped onto the sofa, waiting for John to come out from the bath.

When John finished he put on his warm pajamas and wrapped his dressing gown around him, moving through the sitting room to the stairs. "I think it's best if I lay down again," he said.

"All right, I'll come up," Sherlock said, getting up to follow him.

"I -- oh," John said surprised. "Yes, if you want."

Sherlock realised he probably should have asked, but it didn't matter now, John had said it was okay. He walked up behind him.

John climbed into bed and pulled the covers up, looking over at Sherlock. "Won't you be bored?"

"Being with you is never boring," Sherlock said. "Well, usually it's not boring." He moved over and sat down on the bed. "Are you feeling better now that you don't stink as much?" 

John rolled his eyes. "I'm getting there. My chest has to clear out," he said.

"Disgusting," Sherlock said. "Well, um, I've got something that might help with that." He stood up and moved around and sat down next to John's hip. "Another one of my grandmother's cures. Do you want to try?"

"Uh, yeah, okay," John said. "What is it?"

"It's like an ointment, well no, it is an ointment," Sherlock said. He pulled it out of his pocket and handed the tin to John to inspect. While he did, Sherlock put the candle on John's bedside cabinet, lit it and then turned out the light so it was dark except the flame.

John glanced over. "What's that then? Are you getting romantic?"

Sherlock ignored the comment. "It cleanses the air. It's scientific -- science does more than solve crimes, you know."

John crinkled his brow. "Okay, this ointment," he said. "Do I just use it like a lotion on my hands?"

"No, it goes on your chest," Sherlock said, taking the tin back from him. "Here, take your shirt off and I'll put it on for you. You should just relax and inhale deeply." He pushed at John's t-shirt and then unscrewed the tin.

John took his shirt off and shivered lightly. "You'll do it for me?" he asked.

"Yeah," Sherlock said. "You're supposed to be . . . you know, relaxing." He smeared some of the ointment onto his fingertips. "Yeah?" he asked, waiting for John to approve.  
  
"Um . . . but what's in it? Did you make it?" John asked.

"Some herbs and whatnot," Sherlock said. "Look, it'll help -- did you really check to see what every single ingredient in those tablets was before you took them?" He rubbed his hands together and then reached over and pressed them lightly onto John's chest.

"I -- well no but . . ." John sighed and leaned back on the headboard. "I was just asking . . ."

"Don't you trust me?" Sherlock asked as he started to move his hands over John's chest, spreading the concoction. He watched his hands as they covered John's skin.

John looked down at the cream spreading and then at Sherlock. "Yeah, I do." He inhaled deeply to prove it.

"You don't really want me to bore you to death with scientific talk about enzymes and ions, do you? Isn't it nicer just to believe me?" Sherlock said. His voice had gone a bit quiet and slow, probably because they were sitting almost in the dark. His hands moved smoothly over John's chest. This was the first time he'd ever touched John here. His skin was warm from his bath.

John took in another deep, shaky breath. He was feeling warm and couldn't tell if it was because of the fever or the cream. Or the touching. He opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock's face. "It's nice . . ." he agreed quietly. 

"Yeah, it is," Sherlock said even though he wasn't quite sure what either of them meant by that comment. In truth, though, this was kind of nice. Maybe just because he was setting John up. When he got better, Sherlock would explain the whole experiment and then . . . what? Well, nothing really, but at least he'd have kept himself busy during John's illness. He slid one of his hands up John's neck just a bit and then sat back, picking John's shirt from the floor and wiping his hands on it. "Now cover up," he said, pulling the blankets a little. He got up and moved to the other side of the bed. "I'll stay up here a bit until you go to sleep and then blow out the candle. I can't have you burning the flat down."

John was disappointed when it was over. He did as Sherlock asked, lying on his side to look at him. "It would be your fault," he said.

"Ye of little faith, John Watson," Sherlock said. "Why'd you go and get flu in the first place? Am I that terrible to work with you had to get yourself sick to get out of it?" His voice was still soft and he realised he felt a little sleepy himself. 

"No," John said softly. He almost pat the bed for Sherlock to lie down, but he knew he would be coughing all night. "I'd be more upset if you had a case right now." 

"I don't," Sherlock said. "I've got nothing to do but look after you. Stop talking now and try to rest." 

"Lucky me," John murmured, letting his eyes close. His breathing was still heavy from the cold. 

Sherlock listened to John breathe for a little while until he seemed like he was either asleep or almost there. He moved quietly from the bed, walked over to blow out the candle and went downstairs.

He opened a document on his computer and jotted down his notes. John was suspicious but not enough to refuse. That was a good sign: surely John knew candles and cream could not do anything, but Sherlock's backstory had inspired enough trust (or at least quelled any resistance). So far it was going well. He saved the document, closed up the laptop, and took a book into his room to read until he fell asleep.


	4. The Experiment Continues

In the middle of the night John woke up with a coughing fit so strong that he saw spots for a moment. He wished Sherlock had left his something for him to drink. He got up and padded to the bathroom to sip some water from the sink. His nose was stuffed again and the aches were still there. He went to his room and blew hard, coughing again before he settled and lay down. He didn't want to put on his ointment-covered shirt, but now that he was lying down again, he didn't want to get back up to get a clean one. He curled up and tried to doze off again. 

Sherlock heard John get up and waited to see if he was going to need Sherlock. He couldn't tell so he picked up his phone.

_Need anything? SH_

John thought about the silly requests Sherlock usually demanded of him. Did he have the heart to do it back? If he said he was cold would Sherlock come all the way up to bring him a shirt from a dresser in the same room?

_No thank you. -JW_

Sherlock looked at the message and realised he felt a bit disappointed.

_Need more tea or ointment? SH_

John bit his lip.

_I'm just a bit cold. -JW_

_I'll bring up an extra blanket. SH_

Sherlock rolled off his bed and pulled on the cover, dragging it behind him as he padded up to John's room. He went in, climbed onto the bed, pulling the blanket over both of them. He curled on his side, turning away from John, and said, "Better?"  
  
"I -- Sherlock . . ." John sighed. He'd been hoping for a shirt, but this worked too. But was Sherlock going to stay in here all night? "You'll really get poorly being around it . . . that's how I caught it."

Sherlock rolled over. "I'm not worried," he said. "But if I do get it, you'll know how to cure me, I'm sure. Do you feel better at all? Should I put some of the ointment on your back? Maybe that would help?"

"Okay," John nodded. "It did help," he added even though he wasn't convinced it'd done anything at all. He turned his back to Sherlock.

Sherlock reached over John to grab the ointment from the table and then dipped his fingers into it. He spread it over John's back, massaging the muscles a bit as he did. John was quite muscular -- Sherlock rarely thought about that since John hid it so well with his ridiculous jumpers. "You're muscular," he said stupidly. 

"Lots of training," John mumbled, remembering his years playing rugby and then, of course, the army. He closed his eyes and focused on the feel of Sherlock's hands. Once in a while he coughed or blew his nose, but Sherlock kept massaging. He really hoped Sherlock wouldn't get poorly after how nice he was being.

"Do you think this is helping at all?" Sherlock said. "I honestly believe it will."

"I think so," John said, starting to doze off again.

Sherlock kept rubbing John's back until it seemed like he was asleep again. Sherlock covered John up properly and then lay on his back, staring up at John's ceiling. It seemed like his experiment was going well. He was enjoying it in a way he hadn't quite expected and wasn't sure he understood. But the experiment was the main thing -- looking at how the human mind worked and seeing how easily it could be influenced. He lay there for a little while longer and then moved quietly downstairs, updating his notes.

John didn't wake again until the morning. When he remembered the night before he turned around but Sherlock was gone. He felt a bit disappointed by that. He got up and walked to the bathroom, washing his face and taking more medication. 

Sherlock had gone to sleep on the sofa, so it'd be easier to hear John if he needed him. When John got up, Sherlock moved into the kitchen to make tea, dropping another herbal tea bag into John's mug. He was yawning when he saw John leave the bathroom. "Tea?" he said.

John nodded. "Let me put a shirt on. I think I can come sit here," he said. His body didn't ache as much and he was breathing a bit better.

"Please do -- seeing your manly chest is very upsetting and besides, you stink of that ointment," Sherlock said with a laugh. He finished the tea and slipped an orange into his pocket, before carrying it into the sitting room.

John rolled his eyes and made his way upstairs, coughing as he got dressed. He brought his tissues with him when he came to the sitting room, plopping down into his chair.

Sherlock nodded towards the tea and orange. "So I'm curing you, am I?" Sherlock said, smiling smugly.

"The medicine is helping," John said stubbornly. He started peeling the orange, not looking over.

Sherlock sat up. "You were supposed to just be taking my medicine!" he pouted.

John looked over at him, surprised by his tone. "I need the decongestant to clear all of this out," he said, motioning to his head and chest. He coughed hard again, groaning softly. "I'm sure yours is helping as well." He sipped the tea quickly to ease his throat.

"Don't patronise me, John Watson," Sherlock said. "From now on, no more medicine. Only do what I say."

John looked away again and went back to his orange. He found he was a bit annoyed with Sherlock. He was surprised to realise it was because he'd snuck off during the night. And now his insistence on the medicine stuff added to his annoyance. Sherlock was up to something, probably experimenting, and John was even more annoyed to admit he was curious. "Fine," he grumbled. He hoped Sherlock didn't get rid of all tablets just to prove whatever his stupid point was.

"Good," Sherlock said. "You should go upstairs actually -- we should burn the candle again. Tea, ointment and candle . . . should be enough. You'll be cured by tomorrow, I'm confident." He finished his tea.

"Let me use the bathroom first," John said, standing and heading there quickly. He stuffed the medicine into the pocket of his dressing gown before flushing and going to his room. He hung the dressing gown so Sherlock wouldn't catch on.

Sherlock took the mugs to the kitchen. He wasn't sure if he was going upstairs with John -- he supposed he wanted to but in truth there was no reason for Sherlock to be there. John was capable of lighting a candle on his own. He filled a glass with water. There, now he had a reason to go up. He should take John a glass of water. He headed up to John's room and put the glass by his bed and then lit the candle, slowly turning, hoping that John would tell him to stay.

John watched Sherlock until he was almost at the door, realising he had no intention of staying. "Did you bring the ointment?" he asked, fiddling with the sheet. He glanced at the water and felt bad being annoyed with Sherlock. He was trying to help after all.

"Need more?" Sherlock said, fishing another tin out of his pocket. "Front or back?" he asked. 

John shrugged. "You're the doctor."

"I guess more on your chest would be good since you're still coughing," Sherlock said, waiting for John to take off his shirt and lie down.

John pulled his shirt off and lay back.

Sherlock dipped his fingers into the ointment. "The smell's kind of growing on me actually," he said. "Do you like it?" he asked as he stuck his finger towards John's nose.

John wrinkled his nose and twisted his head away. "I'm smelling it enough, thanks."

Sherlock put his hands on John's chest and began rubbing slowly. He watched his hands again, watched his fingers moving over John's chest and a bit down the side before moving across his abdominal muscles. "Does this feel good?" he asked. "The ointment, I mean. It's warming, I think."

"Does it go on my stomach?" John asked, his voice huskier than he meant it to be. He hoped it came off as another cold symptom.

Sherlock moved his hands back to John's chest. "It can go anywhere, I guess," he said. "I mean, it's all natural -- it won't hurt you or anything."

"I just meant . . . okay," he nodded, watching Sherlock's face again. He was feeling warm, but this time he knew it wasn't the fever.

Sherlock moved his hands up to John's throat and then his shoulders, massaging the muscles. "You're kind of . . . handsome," he whispered before realising that was an incredibly odd thing to say. "I mean for an ill person -- are you sure you haven't been faking?" he added, trying to cover up his awkwardness.

John flushed even darker. "Sherlock . . ." he murmured softly. "I haven't been faking." He swallowed hard and kept his eyes fixed on Sherlock's face. "Stay here and see for yourself," he suggested softly.

"Where else would I go?" Sherlock said, smiling a little. He rubbed the tops of John's arms a little and then moved over beside him. "If I ever were to get ill -- which I won't because I never do -- are you planning on taking care of me like this or will you just shove tablets down my throat and tell me to call you in the morning?" he asked.

John ignored his teasing. "Don't leave when I fall asleep, okay?"

Sherlock glanced over. "All right," he said. "If you think that'll help." He was wondering now if John had more faith in him than he'd realised. Was John thinking Sherlock's presence alone with curing him? Interesting. He pulled on the blanket a little to cover himself.

John curled up properly and closed his eyes, trying to doze off. It was hard knowing Sherlock was so close, worried that he would keep Sherlock up with his coughing, worried he would be uncomfortable. Eventually, though, he fell asleep, snoring softly.

Sherlock closed his eyes and listened to the quiet in the room. He wasn't very comfortable -- John's bed wasn't as good as his and he was still wearing yesterday's clothes. But he didn't want to leave. He wanted to stay.


	5. Things Seem To Be Working

John coughed a few times, finally waking up after just an hour and a half rest. He looked over at Sherlock and poked his cheek lightly.

"I wasn't sleeping," Sherlock said quickly even though he obviously had been. He stretched a little and looked over at John. "You coughed a bit so you're not cured, but admit it, you're feeling better, aren't you?"

John nodded. "I am. Can I have some tea?" he asked.

"Special tea?" Sherlock asked, pushing himself up. "Are you saying you're entirely convinced by my remedies?"

John rolled his eyes lightly. "Yes," he answered.

"Good," Sherlock said, smiling. He got up and said, "Put a shirt on before you come downstairs," before heading down to the put the kettle on. He moved over to his desk and tried to quickly update his notes.

John made sure Sherlock was downstairs before he got up and snuck another decongestant. He felt lighter. There was no pressure in his head, he was breathing more easily, and he was coughing less. He freshened up in the bathroom and came down to the sitting room.  

"I'll get the tea," Sherlock said, closing his laptop and moving quickly to the kitchen. "I think I'll take a shower," he said as he handed John his cup. "I feel a bit…gross. We're just staying in the rest of the day, yeah?" he called as he headed into his room.

"Yeah," John said. "I'm so close to being better so I am not going anywhere."

Sherlock came back out, carrying some clean pajamas. "Then I won't bother getting properly dressed," he said before disappearing into the bathroom.

John leaned back in his chair and sipped on the strange tea, waiting for Sherlock to come back. He liked spending the day with him like this. 

As he was showering, Sherlock realised he was smiling. Was it just because his silly little experiment seemed to be working? He tried to remember why he'd started this in the first place . . . that's right, to see if John was gullible enough to believe in silly things just because Sherlock told him to and to see if that belief would cure him. Yes, it seemed to be working. What did this mean? That John was as stupid as those people online? That's not what he'd been trying to prove and Sherlock knew John was (almost) as smart as he was. So why was John getting better? He wasn't sure yet. That's what he needed to figure out next. He spent no more time analysing his own behaviour whatsoever. He dried off and put his pajamas on before coming out, topping up his mug and moving to the sitting room.

John smiled when he saw Sherlock. "Feel better now?"

"Yeah, I do," Sherlock said, taking a sip of tea. "You, of course, have no way of knowing this, but looking after a sick person is exhausting." He glanced over and smiled cheekily.

John laughed softly and this time he only coughed hard once. "Quit it!"

"Don't be so bossy," Sherlock said. "It helps bacteria spread plus it's unattractive."

"You already decided I'm handsome. You can't take it back," he grinned smugly.

"I'm going to regret this experiment," Sherlock mumbled and then reached for the remote. He turned on the television and started flipping the channels.

"What experiment?" John asked.

"What?" Sherlock said, glancing over. "I didn't say experiment -- are your ears blocked? Do I need to make some eardrops for you?"

John's brows furrowed. "Fine. Pretend all you want, but I heard you."

"You're delirious," Sherlock said. "We need the candle . . . I'll go get it." He jumped up and ran to John's bedroom, bringing back the candle before lighting it and setting it on the table. "There, that should help." He looked at the television and frowned. "What do you want to watch? Everything looks boring."

"It doesn't matter. Clearly I'm seeing enough via my hallucinations," he teased.

"Hallucinations? Sounds interesting," Sherlock said. "Perhaps I should get sick after all . . ." He looked over at John. "We've been in the flat 24 hours now. Are you bored of me?" he asked quietly.

"I could never be bored of you," he said.

"Do you want to come sit on the sofa?" Sherlock asked. "You can lie down if you want."

"Won't that bother you?" John asked even though he was already getting up.

"No -- but I can move if you'd prefer," he added but he didn't get up to move.

John sat on the sofa. "How can I lie down without bothering you?" he asked.

"John, you never bother me," Sherlock said. "I mean . . . just shut up and lie down." He moved to the end of the sofa and waved his hand at the empty space.

John shifted a bit to curl his feet up so when he lay his head was on Sherlock's leg. "This okay?" he asked.

"Um, sure," Sherlock said, pulling his arm up and putting it on the back of the sofa. "Comfortable?"

John nodded. "Are you?"

"Yeah, I am," Sherlock said and he realised he was talking about much more than just this moment. "It's been good, this last day, hasn't it? I mean except for your being poorly but hanging out . . . it's been quite nice."

John nodded again. "Yeah, it has." 

Sherlock pushed the remote towards John and then moved his hand a bit, letting it rest in the tiny space between John's body and the back of the sofa. "You choose something," he said. "You're the patient."

John flipped through the channels until he found an old movie playing, something about gangsters. He shifted so his back bumped Sherlock's hand. He didn't move away.

Sherlock let his hand press against John's back. He wasn't sure what was happening -- something seemed different. Was it just because John was poorly or was it because he was working on this experiment? He wondered if John would be angry when he found out the truth. He shouldn't be -- it's not like Sherlock was hurting John, in fact they'd both agreed the time together had been nice. Sherlock was just examining the power of the mind, that's all it was. He let his hand move a little on John's back. For an experiment examining the mind, Sherlock had spent quite a bit of time touching John's body. He wondered why.

John closed his eyes. The film didn't matter, really. He focused on the parts of him touching Sherlock -- his cheek on Sherlock's thigh, his back being rubbed lightly by his hand -- and he suddenly didn't mind the patients who had given him flu.

Suddenly Sherlock realised that John hadn't eaten much. That didn't seem good -- John loved eating and ill people should probably be getting food. "Are you hungry?" he asked.

John shook his head. "Not really," he said. He was just a little, but he was irrationally afraid that if they moved now they would never do this again. He was almost better, after all.

"You should eat, John," Sherlock said. "If you don't you might not get better and you'll blame me . . ." He didn't move yet though. "We can order in -- you won't have to move. You can still be a big baby until tomorrow when this sickness should be gone." 

"I'm not being a baby," he said. He flushed lightly -- all of a sudden, he realised his stupidity. What did he think was going on here? Sherlock was doing some sort of experiment and John was . . . well, it didn't matter. He was setting himself up to get hurt. He pushed himself up and shook his head. "I'll make something easy," he said, moving towards the kitchen.

"No," Sherlock said. He jumped up as well. "I'm the doctor," he emphasized even though he knew the phrase was meaningless. "Go back and lie down. We'll order something. Go," he said. He took out his phone and ordered some Chinese, making tea while he was up anyway. Then he brought the mugs over and sat back down on the sofa.

John went to the sofa reluctantly, but this time he sat properly on his side. He took the throw from the back of the sofa and wrapped it around himself.

Sherlock looked over at John. "Are you angry with me about something?" he asked. He wasn't quite sure what was happening, but something in the room had changed.

John shook his head. "No, of course not," he said. How could he explain he was upset about something that wasn't even real? His own head was running away with him and that wasn't Sherlock's fault. "I'm not."

"I made you regular tea," Sherlock said. "For a treat," he added, smiling a little. "You should have one more special one before bed though." He looked back at the television. Things still didn't seem quite normal. Except they were -- they'd sat like this on the sofa watching television and drinking tea a thousand times. It was entirely normal. But it didn't feel as nice as it had a few minutes ago when John was lying down. Why did Sherlock want that again? He wasn't sure. He drank some tea, instead of thinking more, he tried concentrating on the taste of the hot liquid in his mouth.

"Okay," he agreed, sipping quietly. He glanced over at Sherlock. "I was just a bit cold, so I grabbed the blanket. That's all," he said, unsure why he was explaining.

"All right," Sherlock said. "The food'll be here soon," he added though it was both obvious and irrelevant. He just stayed quiet for a bit until eventually he heard a noise at the door. He stood, went and returned with the food, which he scooped onto two plates and carried back in. He handed a plate to John before he sat back down. "You don't have to eat it all but you should eat something to keep up your strength," he said. "You know that, John."

John nodded. "I know that." He picked at his food and are small bites, realising how Sherlock must feel all of the time when John nagged him about eating. He didn't have much of an appetite, but he pushed through a few bites, drinking mostly tea.

Sherlock ate a little and then put his plate on the table. He finished his tea, glancing over at John to make sure he was at least eating something.

John are a couple more bites, glanced at Sherlock, had one more, and then put his own plate down. He finished his tea and curled up again.

Sherlock grabbed the plates and took them to the sink. He made another cup of tea, putting a special bag in John's mug. He brought it in and set it on the table. "When you finish this, you can go back up to bed again," he said. "Rest -- it's part of the cure." He sat back down on the sofa and sipped his tea.

"I think I'll go now with my tea," he said, picking up his mug. "Sorry. I just want to cover up."

Sherlock watched him. He didn't know what to do and realised he'd been wishing John would lie down on his lap again, even though he wasn't sure why. "What should I do?" he asked.

John paused and looked back at him. It was a bad idea, sure to cause him trouble later but he said it anyways. "Want to come up with me?"

"Yeah," Sherlock said standing up. "If you want. You probably need more ointment." He grabbed the candle and followed John upstairs.

"Yes. Good idea," John nodded, eager for being touched again.


	6. No One Knows Quite What's Happening

Sherlock climbed up on the bed. "You'll need to take off your shirt," he said. He realised his stomach was flipping a little -- was he just feeling guilty about continuing this experiment, or starting it, or finding himself enjoying it so much? He shifted a little to get more comfortable. "The air in here is different, I think it's the candle's effect, everything seems better," he said rambling a little.

John pulled his shirt off. He didn't really notice anything about the air. Sherlock's most used remedy was one where he touched John quite a bit. Did that mean something? John scooted closer. "It's all helping," he nodded.

"Your room's nicer than mine, I think," Sherlock said. For some reason, it seemed easier to talk through this. "It just . . . feels nicer," he added, dipping his fingers in and then rubbing his hands together. He set them lightly on John's chest before beginning to rub softly.

"I can't decide if I don't see both," John murmured, raising his eyes to Sherlock's.

"You've been in my room," Sherlock said. "Haven't you? Or do you mean . . . sleeping in there. Are you asking to sleep in there?"

"I mean.  . . to have an accurate comparison. Haven't you always said accuracy is important?" John said, looking at Sherlock's hands again.

"I guess you could sleep there sometime," Sherlock said. He stopped talking and watched his hands touching John. He wondered why he liked it. Was it just because he was taking care of John? He did like that idea -- he'd always tried to look after him but this was different, it was nothing but care and it wasn't quite as bad as he'd always assumed that kind of sentiment would be. He wondered if he'd still want to do this after John was totally better. He kind of thought he might.

"When I'm better," John whispered. He felt like he had to say something now that Sherlock had gone quiet.

Sherlock wasn't sure what to make of that, but he knew his first reaction was a nice one. All of this had been reassuring, comforting, to Sherlock as well. "Maybe," he mumbled and kept his hands moving. He let them go a little lower to John's stomach. Then he said, "It helps with digestion as well," as if he needed to explain his actions.

"That's good," John said. In his heart he knew he meant Sherlock's exploring hands, but he didn't clarify. Maybe Sherlock would think he was talking about the little fact and not go running from the room.

Sherlock kept watching his hands. It was like they were moving on their own, like they know what they were doing even if he didn't. It was intriguing and not worrying, at least at the moment, which was unusual. He'd started this silly little experiment to find out if he could make John better with folk remedies, but it seemed like it had all changed without his really intending it to. Now he felt like he was waiting to see what would happen next.

John watched him, wishing he could read Sherlock's mind. What was he thinking when he was touching John?

Sherlock moved his hands up John's body and down each of his arms. Then he laced his fingers through John's for a moment and then began massaging John's hands. "Also prevents arthritis, I think," he mumbled, continuing to move John's hands in his own.

"It's a miracle cream," John murmured, moving a bit closer.

"The ingredients are quite complex, I can write them out for you if you'd like," Sherlock said. "Or you could just trust me."

John shook his head. "I trust you," he said quietly.

"I trust you, too, John," Sherlock said softly.

John had a strong urge to close the space and kiss Sherlock just then. What was going on? Was this illness making him delirious or was it something with the ointment? He swallowed hard and suddenly pulled away. "I-I think that's enough, yeah?" He couldn't look at Sherlock now.

Sherlock lifted his hands from John's skin. "I'm sorry . . ." he mumbled, even though he wasn't quite sure what he'd done wrong. He wiped his hands on the sheet. "Do you want me to go?"

"No," John shook his head. "No, don't go. I -- well, let's change the sheet now and we'll go to sleep, okay?" He moved to get up, turning away quickly for the drawer. That's when he realised he was getting an erection. God, he was getting too carried away.

"Just leave the sheet," Sherlock said, standing up and stepping away from the bed. "You'll be all better in the morning and we can wash everything and you'll be better and we won't need any of this anymore," he rambled, leaning down to blow out the candle. "I don't have to stay here . . . if you're better, I can go downstairs." He stood a bit stupidly at the end of the bed.

"I meant because you wiped the cream all over it," he murmured. "And I don't -- I don't want you to go."

Sherlock looked over. "Okay," Sherlock said. "I don't want to go either . . ." He moved over to the side of the bed and lifted the covers, sliding underneath. "It's . . . a bit odd though."

"What do you mean?" John asked.

"I just mean . . . it's odd."

John flushed. "I don't want to force you . . . I just thought . . . if you wanted..." He fiddled around the room and dresser a bit, not wanting to get into bed with any sign of his embarrassing predicament. He tried to breathe deeply to help it go away.

"Shut up," Sherlock said, smiling a little. "As if you could force me to do anything." He glanced over at him. "Get in," he said and when John didn't move, he said, "What's wrong? Are you going to be sick?" He moved a bit in case he had to get out and go get the bin.

"No, I'm fine. I -- let me just use the loo since I'm up and I'll be right back," he said. He hurried off to the bathroom and stood over the sink, taking deep breaths and thinking of his disgusting patients instead of Sherlock's beautiful hands all over him.

Sherlock sat back on the bed, wondering what to do. It seemed like something was wrong with John, but he wasn't sure if he caused it or if he should try to help. He started thinking about the herbs -- he used much more of the ointment on him tonight, maybe John was having an allergic reaction. He thought about going after him, but that seemed like an over reaction. He sat quietly waiting.

When John felt normal again, he flushed and came back to the room, climbing into bed. "Can I shut the light off?" he asked.

"Of course," Sherlock said. He tried to act normally. When John lay down, he did as well. "Did I do something wrong?" he asked quietly.

"No," John said earnestly. "Sherlock, no. You didn't do anything wrong."

"I'm just trying to help you feel better," Sherlock said, which wasn't a lie. "I know I go overboard but. . . it's been nice even if it's been odd."

"You are helping. It's okay," John assured him.

"It's been better than okay for me," Sherlock said. "That's why it's been odd, I guess." He rolled over a little. "I don't know what I'm saying. Maybe I'm getting ill . . .I'm talking stupid."

"You're not. I'm a doctor, you know," he smiled. "It's been more than okay for me too. Why don't we try and sleep, yeah?"

"All right," Sherlock said. He turned over and pulled the covers up around John. "You said I was the doctor. . ." he said under his breath, smiled and then settled himself in to go to sleep.

John smiled as he closed his eyes and tried to sleep. This was good, the two of them together like this. He wished Sherlock wanted the same thing.

Sherlock listened to John's breathing. It seemed smoother tonight. The bed also felt more comfortable. He closed his eyes and listened to his own breathing until he was too was asleep.

John slipped into a dream about being sick again, and Sherlock was carrying him everywhere. He kept bringing John things in bed and when John asked why, Sherlock tilted his head as if the answer was so easy. "I love you." John woke up with a small gasp, when he realised Sherlock was curled around him. He stayed very still for several long minutes, trying to figure out what to do. Eventually he just lay back down, left Sherlock where he was, and drifted off again.


	7. John Figures It Out

When Sherlock woke up, he was closer to John than he'd been when he went to sleep. He moved back a little, trying not to wake John. He looked over at him -- he definitely looked better. Which should have made Sherlock feel good, but actually made him feel a little sad for some reason. He lay flat on his back and looked up at John's ceiling, hoping he'd go back to sleep so he could stay here next to John for just a bit longer.

When John woke the second time, the first thing he did was take a deep breath. His nose was clear. He swallowed and nothing hurt. He was sure he still had a light cough, but it was hardly anything at all. He turned over and looked at Sherlock, willing him to wake up so John could share the news.

Sherlock had only fallen into a light sleep so when John's breath changed and he moved a little, Sherlock opened his eyes. "Morning," he said, rubbing one hand over his face.

"Hi," John said softly. He couldn't help smiling stupidly. Sherlock was here, waking up in his bed. "How did you sleep?"

"Yeah, good, fine," Sherlock said, pushing himself up a bit. "Pretty well actually," he added. "How are you feeling?"

"So much better," John said. He pushed himself up as well. "Well enough that I might go into work today."

Suddenly Sherlock felt panicked -- if John was better, there'd be no more spending the day together, no more touching John's chest, no more John's head on his lap, no more sleeping in the same bed. He didn't have time to think about why the loss of these things felt so traumatic because his mouth was already moving and words were coming out, "Are you sure? I think . . . well, you don't look well enough to go back to work. I mean, you kept me up most of the night with your coughing. Maybe you were right, maybe you should have kept up with the medication as well as my remedies. I just don't think you're better so you should stay home, here, I mean." He tried to stop his ramble and clear his throat. "You need another day of rest, I think, is all I'm trying to say," he added.

John's brows furrowed lower and lower as Sherlock rambled on. He had never seen Sherlock talk that way before -- so unsure of the words he was saying. When he was finished John considered telling him that he had, in fact, kept up with the medication but suddenly his dream flashed into his head. _I love you._ Dream Sherlock had said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world and now . . . now Sherlock was acting like John going back to work would ruin everything. His eyes widened suddenly in realisation. He wasn't the only one with new feelings and thoughts about his friend.

"I . . . well, if you insist I suppose I should wait." John forced himself to cough into his fist. "Yes, I think that's a good idea." He watched Sherlock closely, trying to read something more telling than a dream.

Sherlock felt a flood of relief before he remembered he probably shouldn't be reacting so positively about John's illness. He tried to make his voice sound normal and said, "I never promised a quick cure, John." He stretched a little and said, "I need the toilet and then some tea. Want me to make you breakfast? I can do eggs and toast -- if you want anything more than that, you're out of luck." He stood up from the bed and stretched again.

Sherlock was cooking. For John. And bringing it to him in bed. Maybe. "I -- that sounds good," he said.

Sherlock went downstairs, brushing his teeth and going to the bathroom first, and then moved to the kitchen. He started the kettle and put the bread under the grill as he made some scrambled eggs. He tried to go as quickly as possible as he didn't want John to come downstairs -- he wanted an excuse to be in John's room again. He put it all on a tray and carried it upstairs. 

John had his computer in his lap, sending Sarah an email that he would be off a couple more days and assuring her that he was almost cured. When Sherlock came in, he put the computer on the ground and smiled. "That looks nice," he said.

"I hope you like it," Sherlock said, setting it down on his lap. He smiled stupidly and moved over and sat on the bed.

John tasted the eggs and smiled. "It's really good. Thank you, Sherlock."

"Good," Sherlock said. "I can put more ointment on you when you're done."

"Okay, yeah," John agreed. He knew he was risking another episode, but he also knew something else now. Sherlock wanted to touch him like that. He must.

Sherlock reached over and touched John's arm and then pulled his hands back. "Anyway, I hope the eggs are like you like them," he said. "I never really paid attention to your breakfast before."

"They are really good," he assured Sherlock. He put the eggs on his toast and finished quickly enough, moving onto the tea. "So . . . how long do you give me? Just an estimation."

"What do you mean? How long will I take care of you?" Sherlock asked.

"No. I know the answer to that," he smiled. "I just meant how much longer do you think I'll be sick?"

"Well, let me look a little more closely at you," he said. He looked over at John's face as if he was examining it, lifting one eyelid and pretending to look in his nose. He put his hand on John's forehead and then acted like he was checking his pulse. "You'll be dead in two days," he said, moving back to sit crosslegged next to John.

John burst out laughing, shaking his head. For effect, he forced a fake cough again. It sounded obvious to him, and he wondered if Sherlock could tell.

Sherlock reached over and grabbed John's arm again. "John," he said seriously. "Look, maybe we'd better take you to a real doctor -- that sounds worse. I was just trying to . . . maybe we should take you to a doctor."

John shook his head. "No, no. I'm sure the cream and the candle and tea are enough."

"Just --" Sherlock started but he didn't know how to finish. He couldn't tell John about the experiment now, he felt bad his stupid idea had made John worse. "Just forget about the stupid ointment and candle and all that . . . just forget it all . . ." He pulled his legs up underneath him.

"But it was helping, why would I forget it? I thought you were going to put more on now -- that might help," he said. He wondered if he should admit he was faking, but Sherlock had been upset when he was better. But now he seemed upset that John wasn't better.

Sherlock reached over for the ointment. "All right, but will you take your regular medicine as well, to be sure?" he said. "I really did want you to get better."

"I know, Sherlock." The last line almost proved that Sherlock had an ulterior motive the whole time and now he felt guilty that John wasn't getting better. "We'll see after, okay?" he said and kept eating.


	8. John's Remedy

When the eggs were done, John put the tray on the floor. He took his shirt off like every other time, facing Sherlock a bit more. 

"All right," he said. "Let's light the candle as well . . . it can't hurt, right?" He leaned over John again, picking up the lighter and flicking a flame against the wick. He sat up and coated his fingers with the ointment. He started rubbing John's chest. He liked it as much as he did last time. "So do you like the smell or something?"

"What do you mean?" he asked, his eyes fixed on Sherlock again. He felt his skin warming at Sherlock's touch. 

"Is that why you want me to put the cream on? Obviously you don't believe it works and apparently it doesn't, so what other reason could there possibly be for my doing this?" Sherlock asked. He was watching his hands again -- he liked the way they looked on John's skin. And the way they felt.

John licked his lips lightly. "Why do you keep insisting on putting it on me if it doesn't work?" he asked instead of answering Sherlock. 

Sherlock thought about it for a moment. He'd started it for an experiment, but was that still what was motivating him? It didn't seem so. He couldn't put his urge into words so he instead he said, "I wanted to make you feel good . . . better, I mean." He dipped his hands to the top of John's stomach.

"I do feel good," he murmured. "Better, I mean."

"Let me do your shoulders again," Sherlock said, reaching up and over. He couldn't reach very well so he shifted -- without realising it he was soon on John's lap, basically straddling his hips. That worked well. He now had access to all of John's upper body so he let his hands to just roam without even thinking very much.

"Sherlock--" John fell back against the headboard and he stared up at Sherlock, his hands already resting on Sherlock's hips. 

Sherlock realised he was starting to feel warm all over -- maybe he was getting John's illness? His face felt flushed and he was sure his pulse was increasing. "Maybe . . . I should rub your legs as well?" he said. His voice sounded strange to him. He didn't know what he was saying or why he was saying it.

"I . . ." John swallowed hard. "I did some research before . . . about home remedies," he murmured. His voice was deep and husky.  

Sherlock wasn't sure if he believed that. "What'd you find?" he asked.

"It said --" John sat up just a bit so he was a little closer to Sherlock. He looked up and met his gaze. "It said if you kiss someone who's not ill, it'll make you better." He was speaking quietly, nervous but still moving, very slowly, closer. 

Sherlock swallowed. He wasn't sure what John was doing but he liked that he was even closer. "I - I didn't read that," he said stupidly.

John faltered a bit. Of course Sherlock would debunk the idea. "Sherlock . . . help me feel good," he breathed. "Better, I mean."

Sherlock leaned even closer. "Should I try it…what you said?" he whispered. His hands had stopped moving and were now gripping the tops of John's arms.

"Please?" John whispered, moving even closer. He could feel Sherlock's breath on his face.

Sherlock's hands slid up John's arms and into hair. He gripped his head and tipped it as he crashed into John's mouth, kissing him hard and long like he'd been waiting all his life to do so. Had he?

John's soft moan muffled into the kiss as he returned it eagerly, gripping at Sherlock's hips and trying to pull him even closer than he was. When they broke for air, John huffed a hard breath. "I was faking sick this morning because you looked sad that you wouldn't get to touch me." He smiled and pecked the corner of Sherlock's mouth.

"John," Sherlock mumbled into the kisses. "I wasn't…I didn't know." It was true. Sherlock Holmes, who knew everything, hadn't known. He hadn't known this is what he wanted. But now he knew. He kissed John's mouth again.

"Didn't know what?" he asked.

"Didn't know I wanted this," Sherlock said, sliding down a bit so he was lying flat against John's body. He kissed his mouth again, losing his fingers in his hair.

John returned the kiss as his own hands explored Sherlock's body. He touched his sides and arms, and then one went to his neck and the other in his hair.

Sherlock pulled on John, turning them on their sides, tangling their legs together. "You . . . is this what you wanted?" he asked in between kisses.

John hummed his agreement. "Since you started touching me…you hadn't done anything wrong but it made me . . . excited," he rambled against Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock pulled his head back for a moment. "Why didn't you say?" he asked.

"I was embarrassed. I thought you'd be angry or freaked out," he admitted.

"Did you know about me? I mean, did you know I . . . liked touching you?" Sherlock asked.

"Not until this morning," John said, his thumb rubbing Sherlock's cheek now.

"But the experiment. . ." Sherlock started and then stopped. "I suppose you knew about that as well?"

"I suspected. But I thought the experiment was something unrelated to all of the touching," he said.

Sherlock thought about it for a moment. How had the touching become part of it in the first place? "Yeah," he said. "The experiment wasn't about the touching . . . that just happened, I guess." He swallowed awkwardly but stayed close, pressed against John. "It was just supposed to be about . . . if I could 'believe' you into feeling better, like if I told you my grandmother's remedies would work, they work, just because you believed me." He looked down. "I don't know what I was thinking, I guess . . . maybe I was just being stupid because you weren't paying attention to me. . ."

"So the real experiment was testing my smarts again," John teased. He touched Sherlock's face so he looked up at John again. "You may think it's silly, in the end, but I believe they worked. You've never taken care of me so attentively before and I think that made a difference."

"I liked it," Sherlock said softly, his voice almost like he was confessing a shameful secret. "Taking care of you, I mean. And the touching . . . obviously."


	9. All's Well At Baker Street

John leaned in and kissed his mouth softly. "I like the touching too," he admitted. "You've monopolized it . . . perhaps it's my turn." He slid his hand down to Sherlock's collar, letting his fingers slip past it and nudging Sherlock's arm so he could pull his shirt off. 

"God," Sherlock exhaled. He didn't want to freak John out, but just the light touch had already reignited that urge. He lifted his arms to take off his t-shirt and then lay back down on the bed. Sometimes he was so stupid really . . . that urge which had been compelling him to touch John? It was sexual desire, it was so obvious now but honestly hadn't crossed his mind. He looked at John's face. Of course, he wanted John -- John was his best friend and handsome and kind and just everything to Sherlock. He lifted his arm to touch John's, pulling him down lightly so he could kiss his mouth again.

John kissed Sherlock as his hands roamed over his skin, across his chest, teasing his nipples, and then down to his stomach and sides. He was gorgeous.

Sherlock closed his eyes and just concentrated on the feel of John's hands all over him. He squirmed a little when his fingers trailed his sides and he said John's name when they touched his stomach. "All of it feels good," he mumbled.

"I want to touch more," he said softly, tugging at the elastic on Sherlock's pajamas.

"John," Sherlock said hesitantly. "Are you sure?" He reached down and held John's hand but didn't pull it away. 

John nodded. "Are you?" he asked softly.

"Yes, please," Sherlock said. "You're . . . my best friend." He smiled.

John chuckled, pulling on his pajamas. "More than that, I hope," he murmured, leaning down and kissing Sherlock's hip as more skin was exposed. 

Sherlock looked down. "Yes," he said softly. "More than that." He reached down and touched John's shoulder.

John nuzzled his cheek against the erection straining Sherlock's pajama bottoms. "Can I take these off?" he asked softly.

"Yes, please," Sherlock said again. He pushed them down slightly to show John he meant it. He knew John would see everything now, and it made him slightly embarrassed like he'd felt as a teenager the first time he'd done this. But that was so long ago and he'd closed off all that and it all felt new again. New and a little scary but mostly exciting. And urgent.

John took them off and bit his lip, stroking him lightly with his hand as he bent down again. "Sherlock," he said it just to say it, licking up the shaft and sucking on the head of his cock lightly. He shifted to get more access and starting to take him fully into his mouth, humming softly.

"John," Sherlock said, exhaled as he slid his hand into John's hair. "God," Sherlock moaned. "John . . . it's too much but . . . don't stop."

John started bobbing his head up and down, moaning softly and moving his own hips into the bed. 

"John, do you know what's going to happen . . ." Sherlock moaned, grabbing some of John's hair. His hips started to jerk and then he called John's name and then he was coming.

John almost pulled off and chuckled at the question, but then Sherlock was pulling his hair and John was pulling up a bit to swallow around the head and upper shaft, his eyes lifted to try to see Sherlock's face.

"God, John, god," Sherlock panted. "What's happened?" He tried to pull John up closer to him. "Let me touch you."

John grinned as he leaned in and kissed Sherlock's mouth, straddling his hips. 

Sherlock reached down and started to stroke John. He couldn't believe this was happening, but he couldn't wait to see John let go. "Please . . . show me . . . I want to see."

"Show you what?" John asked softly, still stealing kisses. Sherlock's hand was incredible.

"Show me what you look like when I make you feel good," Sherlock said, stroking harder and faster.

"I -- oh," he moaned softly. "God, Sherlock." He leaned in, as his hips began moving even faster. "Close . . ."

"I love touching you," Sherlock said, smiling as he tried to kiss his mouth quickly.

John's pleasure filled mind heard something different. "I love you, too," he murmured. He gasped softly and let go, his forehead dropping onto Sherlock's shoulder again as he came into his hand. 

Sherlock watched John. It was beautiful. Then he pulled him down towards him, wrapping his arms around his back. "What on earth have we just done?" he asked, smiling against the side of John's head.

John chuckled softly and held him tightly. "We did . . . a lot," he said. 

"Can we do it again or was it just because you were poorly?"

"I wasn't poorly --faking, remember? But we can do it again whenever you want," John said. 

"I just mean . . . do you want to do this kind of stuff now?"

"With you," he nodded. "Yeah, I do."

"When you want to do it again, will you just tell me instead of faking sickness just so I'll come up with a ridiculous experiment that accidentally requires me to rub your chest?" Sherlock asked, shifting his head so he could see John's face.

"I didn't start off faking!" John protested.

Sherlock pushed John a little so they were lying side by side. "Did the remedies do anything, do you think? Just out of curiosity," he said.

"I-I was sort of still talking my medicine secretly," he said.

"You totally destroyed my experiment, John Watson!" Sherlock said. "You're really horrible, you are."

"I was poorly and I was desperate! Besides, those weren't really your grandma's remedies, were they?"

"Maybe," Sherlock said, rolling over to pout. "I'm never going to trick you into participating in an experiment again if you're going to ruin it by not being tricked."

John laughed and rubbed his back. "Come on. Tell me the truth," he said.

"I found them online," Sherlock admitted. "My grandmother didn't have any remedies -- the only time I remember her taking care of us is when she used to sing us to sleep but in truth I think that was only effective because she drugged our cocoa." He liked the feeling of John's hand on his back and wondered if one day he could rub John's back.

"She sang? Do you remember them -- the songs?" John asked.

"It was just one really," Sherlock said. He did remember it. It had helped him sleep. "Mycroft said that she used to sing him other ones, but she thought I was slow so she just sang one so I wouldn't get confused." He reached and grabbed John's hand, bringing it around his body to snuggle him.

"Mycroft is awful," John said. He curled around Sherlock and rest his forehead on his back. "Will you sing it for me?" he asked softly. 

"John," Sherlock said. "I can't sing. I'll put more cream on, if you want . . ." He rubbed John's hand.

"Please? Just one more remedy," John murmured.

Sherlock felt stupid, but he swallowed awkwardly and then quietly started to sing the lullaby from his childhood.

"Hush-a-bye, don't you cry,  
Go to sleep, my little baby.  
When you wake you shall have  
All the pretty little horses.  
Blacks and bays, dapples and greys,  
All the pretty little horses.  
Hush-a-bye, don't you cry,  
Go to sleep, my little baby."

He made a little cough at the end, his mouth dry. "Are you asleep then? Did that one at least work?" he asked, trying to pretend he hadn't just done that.

John closed his eyes as he listened to the song, smiling softly. When Sherlock finished John pressed a small kiss to his back. "That was lovely, Sherlock," he whispered.

"It wasn't, it was daft," Sherlock mumbled. But his experiment had been daft as well and led to the discovery of his urge and that led to what was happening on John's bed right now, so perhaps daft things had some value as well. He pressed back against John, pulling his hand even tighter.

"It wasn't daft," John murmured, cuddling closer. He pressed another kiss to Sherlock's back and closed his eyes. "This is perfect, Sherlock. I like it."

"Except now we both smell like that ointment," Sherlock said. He closed his eyes and thought about everything they'd done in the last few days and what they were doing now. "It is perfect," he added. "And I love you, too."


End file.
